


Consulting Savior

by Sev4Life



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-25 10:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4957084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sev4Life/pseuds/Sev4Life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A/N - Hello, and sorry for not posting! I've been pretty overloaded with school, but I've been sneaking in a few notebook-writing during classes and at midnight after school. I'm really glad that people seem to have been enjoying this story, as it's my first Jimlock/Sheriarty fanfiction. Also, if you could vote and follow me, that would be a great help! Finally, feel free to comment. I love hearing what you people have to say! Thanks!</p><p>-Kobra Kid</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Beating The Bleeding

          "Sebastian, stop. Stop!" Jim cried out, throwing his hands up. Sebastian was above him, looking crazed, with a red wrench in his hand, raised in the air. Jim was curled up in a ball on the ground, pushing himself as far as he could go in the corner and guarding his face with his hands. His right eye was blackened, his left eyebrow bleeding with various other cuts, scrapes, and bruises all along his body. His eyes were squeezed shut and his cheeks wet with tears, and his voice was very low as he muttered "please" and "stop" and "I'm sorry" over and over, wishing with all of his heart that Sebastian would, for once, accept his apology.

          And he did. At least, kind of. Sebastian scowled and threw the wrench down, hitting Jim on that little bone on his ankle, sending a shooting pain up to his knee and leaving his leg tingly. He whimpered, and Sebastian ignored him, turning on his heel and walking out, smacking the doorway before he left fully. Jim's eyes remained shut, and he reached a shaky hand up to his black eye. It was throbbing, and he winced as he brought his hand down, trying to build up the courage to get up.

          This had been going on for who knows how long. Sebastian and Jim's relationship had been fine for the first few months, and then things had gotten a bit out of hand on Sebastian's side. Jim had tried to break it off the first time he had been hit, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He loved this man, whether he liked it or not, and whether it was healthy or not.

          Finally, he gathered the strength to stand, rubbing at his ankle. He had various bruises now, as expected. Slowly, he walked to the door, cautiously peering down the hall on both sides before stepping out. The sounds of the telly drifted from the living room, so of course, Jim managed to avoid that general area as he made his way to the bathroom.

          Turning the doorknob, so that it wouldn't 'click' when he shut the door, he turned the lock and leaned oved over the sink. He sighed at his many injuries, dabbing at his eyebrow with a wet washcloth.

          When he was finished with his eyebrow, he wet the cloth again and his darkened eye, wincing. Then, he sat down on the lidof the loo, crossing his leg so he could better see his ankle. Nothing bad, just a little bruise. Either way, it hurt terribly. All of him hurt terribly, but he had grown rather used to the continues beatings he received from Sebastian.

          Sighing again, Jim stood up, creeping nervously into the living room. "W-Would you like anything, dear?" He asked in Sebastian's general direction, his voice shaky.

          Sebastian only shook his head, his eyes glued to the telly and lips unmoving. Jim nodded and went into the kitchen, beginning to prepare himself some tea. He had just set the kettle on to boil when he felt strong arms snake around his waist and a chin rest on his shoulder. Sebastian's hot breath tickled Jim's ear, and the smaller man turned his head so that he could see his boyfriend. "Hello, sweetheart," He said meekly.

          "Hello, Jim," Sebastian replied silkily, bringing his hands up to Jim's chest under his shirt with a small smile. Jim smiled a bit as well, despite what had happened only ten minutes before. He pressed his lips to Sebastian's gently, so that Sebastian could pull back at any time. Of course, he didn't. He twisted Jim around so that the smaller man was facing him, using his strong hands to pull his face up. Jim willingly followed, wrapping his arms around Sebastian and closing his eyes as they kissed. Sebastian made a small grunt against his lips, and Jim smiled.

          He pulled back, looking into Sebastian's eyes. "I love you," he whispered truthfully, again in spite of how much Sebastian seemed to hate him, given the pain he put him through almost on a daily basis. What made it even worse was that he wasn't drunk. He hurt Jim of his own accord, no alcohol involved. In fact, he rarely drank alcohol at all, other than a beer here and there or wine on special occasions. But it was terrible. He did all this, possibly even planned it, simply because he wanted to see Jim suffer. Yet, Jim couldn't bear to see him go.

          Sebastian didn't return the phrase at first, only nodded. Then, after many moments of silence, he cleared his throat. "I love you too," he said, as if it pained him just to say the words. Jim beamed at his response, kissing him again. He raised his hands up to Sebastian's neck, draping his arms over his shoulders.

          Sebastian, to Jim's great surprise, picked him up, and Jim wrapped his legs tightly around the man. He carried Jim into the living room, throwing himself onto the couch, with Jim above him. Jim unwound his legs from the other man's sides, flattening himself on top of him. Sebastian smiled against Jim's lips, pushing his tongue to explore his mouth.

          With a gasp, Jim grinded slightly against his mate, running his hands through the other man's hair. "You're perfect," he whispered once they pulled away, after realizing that oxygen was, in fact, a necessity of life.

          "I know," Sebastian replied, wrapping his arms around to Jim's rear. Jim smiled, flattening himself completely on top of his partner, resting his head on his chest. With a happy sigh Jim listening to Sebastian's heartbeat, his head rising and falling to the same rhythm as his breathing. He closed his eyes, thinking of the few good times they had together. There was that one time, at the fair, when they had ridden the ferris wheel, which ended in both of them getting off of the ride, laughing their arses off. Jim had convinced Sebastian to take a "selfie" with him, and right as he was about to press the button on his phone the ride started up again, leaving the picture a blurry mess of both Sebastian and Jim looking slightly terrified. Jim had gotten that picture printed out, and it now resided in his wallet. He chuckled at the memory, and Sebastian looked down at the top of his head. "What's so funny?" he said, not unkindly.

          "I was just thinking," Jim replied, "about that time on the ferris wheel. Last year, I think."

          Sebastian laughed, Jim's head bobbing from the movement of his chest. "That was fun. We both looked rather... Scared in that picture."

          Jim laughed again. "We did." Then, another memory flooded into his mind, where they were at the zoo and Sebastian had begun imitating all of the animals. Of course, the camel was "Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike. Guess what day it is?" That had left Jim kneeling on the ground, laughing as hard as humanly possible, almost falling over completely. Sebastian had helped him up, and given him a piggy-back ride for the next fifteen or twenty minutes, which led to a large amount of odd looks from passers-by, varying from laughter to pure disgust. Jim missed those days, when Sebastian could just love him. Really love him. He had his moments, of course, but nothing could defeat the old days.

          Jim pushed away the negative thoughts, smiling up at Sebastian. "Remember at the zoo? You started pretending to be the animals," he said, giggling a little. Sebastian only nodded, grinning. After that, all was silent, other than the soft sounds of the telly, leaving the men to their thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

 Jim slowly drifted off to sleep on top of Sebastian, his palms flat against his lover's chest. Sebastian had drifted off as well, his hands resting on the small of Jim's back, both of them snoring lightly. Jim was having a rather good dream, given the recent events of happiness and love. Sebastian, however, was not. His mind was full of images of his father, how he looked at him with such disgust when he had come out about his newfound sexuality. He was only a teenager, a young boy who looked up to his father for all of his life. And now, here he sat, being told he was a disgrace to the Moran family.

"Disgusting. Absolutely revolting," dream-Dad said, his gray hairs beginning to take over his perviously black hair. "I just can't believe it. My son, one of them."

"Father, you can't really mean that," Sebastian's dream-self said, internally panicking. What if he was kicked out? He had nowhere else to go, no one to go to. He was all alone, and if his father could no longer stand to live in the same house, then Sebastian would end up at the mercy of the streets.

In that moment, his worst nightmares sprang to life. His father grunted, and pointed towards the door. "I want you out."

"But Father-"

"Now," he growled, going to stand up. Sebastian took the hint along with his leave, going to his room to pack. He only packed one bag, with the bare necessities. He figured all he needed was some clothes, some money from his safe, and a few other requirements, and he walked out of his room and paused at the front door, his hand on the doorknob.

His father glared at him. "What are you waiting for? I said out!" He yelled, grabbing an empty vase and hurling it at him, glass raining down on Sebastian's coat as it shattered only inches from the top of his head. He almost yelped, but only gasped and closed his eyes, rushing out of the door and into the merciless streets of London.

Sebastian rushed down the pavement with his bag rolling behind him, wanting to get as far away from the house as possible. Snow wetted his coat as it melted, but Sebastian chose to ignore the iciness that was creeping up on him, both physically and emotionally. That should do the trick. Just cut off all emotions, feel nothing, be nothing. That would be his only way of survival.

But, right as nineteen year old Sebastian was about to sink into a cheap-looking motel, he heard shuffling behind him. He stopped in his tracks, turning around on his heel to check behind him. No one was there, but he could have sworn he saw the tail of a coat disappearing around the corner. "Who's there?" he asked no one in particular.

He was answered with silence, but after a few moments a face of about his age peered around the corner. "Who are you?" he asked the person, who then stepped into full veiw. Sebastian noted that he was, in fact, around his age, was rather short, and had short cropped dark brown hair. And, he looked rather familiar, but Sebastian couldn't quite place a name on him.

"You don't remember me?" The boy asked, with a slightly crooked smile that Sebastian found rather attractive. "I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty."

Sebastian walked up to him, extending a hand. "Sebastian Moran," he said, observing the boy's face. "Why were you following me?"

"Oh, I wasn't following you. I was only... Watching," Jim replied, shaking his hand.

 

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Sebastian said, withdrawing his hand and shoving it in his jacket pocket.

The boy looked kind of embarassed. "Well, I kind of heard your conversation with your father. And we, uh, used to go to school together."

Sebastian smiled a little. "So that's where I recognize you from." The two talked for a bit, and then Sebastian remembered the boy's previous comment. "Wait, you said you heard the conversation between my father and I?"

Jim blushed. "I'm fairly sure half of London heard it," he replied awkwardly, scratching his neck and looking at the ground.

Sebastian laughed, patting the boy softly on the back. "It's perfectly fine. We tend to get rather loud sometimes," he said, pulling on a weak and not totally true smile.

Jim glanced down at the other boy's bag. "Kicked you out, eh?"

"He did. In fact, I should find somewhere to stay."

"Well, you could always stay at my place," Jim said, looking up at the boy with pity. Or was it... Hope?

"Really?"

"Of course. I've got a flat just down the road from here, I've been looking for someone to share it with. It gets rather lonely."

Sebastian chuckled. "I would imagine so," he said, looking down at the man.

"When will you be moving in?" Jim said, with some anticipation.

"Well, now, if that's okay," Sebastian said sheepishly.

"Certainly," Jim said, trying not to sound overeager. He found this man rather attractive, and would love to get to know him better. Better yet, he already knew he was gay, so he didn't have to suffer through the awkward process of asking. Maybe they would hit it off.

Sebastian replied with a broad grin. Him and this handsome man, moving in together. "Fantastic," he said, moving past Jim. Then, he stopped in his tracks, turning to face Jim again. "Could you tell me where it is, exactly?"

Jim chuckled, pointing in the direction opposite to which that Sebastian had been walking previously. "It's that way. I'll take you there." he said, already walking in that direction.

Sebastian rushed to catch up, and soon enough the two were safe from the cold, drinking hot chocolate in the sitting room.

We all know what happens next. The two fall in love, they admit their feelings for each other, they're in a happy relationship, then wham! Sebastian takes over. No need to go into full detail, but real-life Sebastian woke up, and found Jim to still be asleep on his chest. He kissed the top of his head, tightening his grip around him slightly. Jim stirred a little, then looked up at Sebastian with tired eyes. "Good morning, love," he said, his voice low and groggy.

"Good morning, Jim." Sebastian was no longer one for any sort of affectionate name, such as "love", "sweetheart", and "honey". He used to be, back in "the good old days" but those sunshiny days had turned to stormy ones.

Jim smiled at him, squeezing his arms between him and the couch. "I love you," he said quietly.

"I love you too," Sebastian replied, still forcefully. Jim still took notice of it, as he wasn't expecting an answer at all. Sebastian smiled slightly, playing with Jim's hair. "I could really go for some tea."

Jim immediately sat up, clambering off of him. "Yes, of course, dear." This was how it always happened. It was a good day, then something goes wrong, then Jim gets another beating, even if it wasn't his fault. That was just how the wheel turned in Sebastian and Jim's relationship. 'Maybe it will be different today. Maybe all will be well,' Jim thought to himself, as he had thought many times before. He walked quickly into the kitchen, setting the kettle on to boil and waiting impatiently for it to do so. Sebastian remained in the living room, staring at the ceiling. He refused to think about the bad parts of his dream last night, such as the beginning, and tried mainly to focus on the better scenes. However, to his great distaste, the less happy parts crept in, waiting at the corners of his mind like an army waits at the border of a foreign country.

Finally, after quite a bit of pacing, the tea kettle let out a shrill cry, and Jim almost leaped to finish the tea. He made it as he knew Sebastian liked it, bringing it into the living room and nervously extending it towards his lover. Sebastian took it slowly, not saying a word. Jim was used to this. All of his niceness was greeted with silence, or even a bit of angered yelling. He didn't mind, of course. Yes, it was terrible, but it was just something he had to put up with. Everyone has their downsides, and Sebastian's was... This.

Jim nodded with a small smile, rushing out of the room and into his bedroom, walking back out with a handful of papers. When he spoke, his voice was soft and loving. "Hey, honey. So, I think I found someone else."

Sebastian's drink sprayed out of his mouth, his face going red. "You what?!" he demanded, standing up.

Instinctively taking a few steps back, Jim put his hands out in front of him. "A v-victim," he managed to force out, hoping with all of his might that Sebastian wouldn't get even more angry.

Luckily, he didn't. He set his mug of tea down on the coffee table, crossing his arms. "A victim, eh?" He said, his voice low and level.

Jim nodded, cautiously approaching him with the papers. "Jonathan Michael Smith. Thirty-two, married, lives with his wife,no kids, works as a secretary for an insurance company. And the best part, he's having an affair with his boss' wife. So we could blame it on his own wife, or maybe his boss. What do you think?" Jim beamed at his knowledge.

"Are you absolutely sure of all this?" Sebastian questined, and Jim nodded. "And your plan?"

"Well, the man always leaves work and heads directly to the bar. Literally every day. So, we catch him on his way, kill him, and then find his own wife. Then we tell her about his affair, and she'll be mad. So the cops think it was her. Then she calls his boss, and he gets mad. So we've got a whole ton of anger, all from the possible suspects."

Sebastian nodded, taking the papers from Jim's outstretched hand. "And when will this event take place?"

Jim shrugged a little. "Any time this week. As long as it's on a weekday."

"So you're telling me you don't know when?" The air between the men grew a bit tense, and Jim winced at Sebastian's harsh tone. Sebastian raised a hand, about to slap him, and Jim closed his eyes, preparing for the blow.

The blow never came. Sebastian only stood there, with his hand in mid-air, staring at Jim with wide eyes. Images of the dream flowed into his mind, how Jim had been so kind to him, allowing him to move in, giving him a job. And now here the man stood, scared of him. He felt a not necessarily new emotion overtake him, but one that he had not felt often. Not ever, really. Guilt. Guilt at Jim, cowering in front of him. Guilt at his father, dead now. Just guilt. He brought his hand down shakily to his face, turning away from Jim as tears clouded his vision.

"Honey, is something wrong?" Jim said, hurriedly rushing over behind his lover, rubbing his back with a smooth hand. "Baby, what's the matter?"

Sebastian remained turned around, but sniffled a bit. "Don't call me that. You can't love me. How could you even stand me?" He said, wiping a tear from his cheek. This was not something he did often, this crying thing. He very rarely felt emotions at all, as he had cut them off long ago. But, here he was, sobbing over a man he had hurt. Almost killed, in fact.

"Sebastian, I do love you. How could you ever say that?" Jim said, wrapping his arms around the sobbing man's waist. He got his mouth as close to the other man's ear as possible, and said "Listen to me, Sebastian. I. Love. You."

Suddenly, Sebastian had turned around, shoving Jim away in the process. "You can't! And if you do, stop it. I'm not good for you. I'm a fucking monster!" he yelled, kicking the wall. He stopped his destruction quickly, turning towards Jim fully. "Go. Get out," he said quietly, his words tinted with anger, not at Jim, but at himself.

Jim hurried to obey his orders, rushing off to the bedroom. He sat down on the bed, crying himself now. What did he do wrong? Was this his fault? These questions and more zoomed about his head as he wept, burying his face in his hands. A loud crash sounded from the living room, and Jim assumed that Sebastian had thrown something, maybe a picture frame or a vase. Jim forced his eyes open to glance warily at a red suitcase in the corner, which caused him to sob harder. Did he really want him /out/? Like, move out? No. No, no, no. That couldn't be. 'But it is. He doesn't love me any more.' Jim thought to himself, still sobbing. His head was beginning to hurt from the heavy crying, but he didn't care. Why would he? His boyfriend, the love of his life, was kicking him out, and it was all because of him.

***

Sebastian was sobbing as well, as he hadn't done since that day with his father. He wiped at his eyes, then put both palms to his temples. What had he done? He hurt Jim. Badly. And now all of the pain that he had put Jim through crashed down on him, like a sudden storm. He hated it - this crying stuff. It gave him a headache, which maybe he deserved. He had put Jim through much worse. In fact, he had broken one of Jim's arms before, which he admitted was definitely a step too far. Then again, everything now was a step too far. No. A leap too far. And it hurt. It hurt him, it hurt Jim, poor, poor Jim. He should just kill himself. He had a gun in the closet, or there was always the bridge. That's it. The rocks below should definitely kill him.

He forced himself to get it together, wiping his eyes once more. Shrugging on his jacket, he put on his shoes and slowly walked into the bedroom, seeing his lover weeping on the bed, his breaths short and ragged. "Jim," Sebastian said firmly, eyes puffy and red. Jim didn't hear him until he came up and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Jim," Sebastian said again.

Jim slowly turned to face Sebastian, immediately throwing his arms around him and burying his face in his shoulder. "Baby, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please, please, please." He continued to mutter nonsense into his boyfriend's shoulder until he pushed him away, kissing him deeply.

The taller man kissed him as he hadn't kissed him since the earlier, happier days, bringing his hands to his lover's hair. Jim groaned a little against his lips, wrapping his arms around him so that his hands rested on his back. Sebastian ran his fingers through Jim's hair, loving him more than even the first days that they were together. This was different. This was just Sebastian, no father, no anything. This was love. As it should be.

Jim hated to break the kiss, but did anyways, pressing his forehead to Sebastians. "S-Sebastian," he said quietly, trying to look into his boyfriend's eyes. He couldn't, as they were closed tightly, tears running down Sebastian's face once more. Jim wiped away a tear with his thumb, smiling lovingly. "Sebastian, it's okay. You're okay," he whispered.

Sebastian only nodded, his throat too tight for him to force out any sort of word. Jim pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tightly, then loosening his grip and running his fingers through Sebastian's hair. "I love you," he muttered, kissing his cheek. He continued to repeat the words, whispering now, and Sebastian listened to every single one, taking each to heart.

"I love you too. With all of my heart," he managed to get out, wrapping his own arms around the smaller man. He pressed Jim's head into his shoulder with his free hand, and Jim happily obliged. He was surprised at Sebastian's sudden love for him, rather frightened, actually. But, he was pleased all the while.

He pulled his head back from his boyfriend, brushing his lips against his. "Do you want anything to eat?" he said gently, caressing his face with his hand.

"That'd be fantastic," Sebastian said, kissing him again before standing up, pulling Jim along with him. Jim followed him into the kitchen, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. He only let go when he had to open the fridge, the cool air chilling his skin.

"Eggs okay?" he asked his lover, looking at him with an inquisitive glance.

Sebastian nodded. "Sounds great," he replied with a small smile.

Jim returned the smile, drawing the carton of eggs out of the upper-most shelf. Sebastian went to retrieve a pan, which surprised Jim, as he never usually helped with cooking of any sort. Either way, it pleased him that he no longer had to do everything by himself anymore, and he smiled to himself as Sebastian turned on the stove and dropped a bit of butter in the pan, causing it to sizzle and melt. Jim waited for the butter to melt completely before cracking an egg on the counter, watching it droop into the pan.

He gently set the now empty eggshell in the rubbish bin, then walked back to get a spatula out of the drawer. As he nudged the egg around the pan a bit Sebastian approached him from behind, wrapping his strong arms around Jim's slender waist. A happy sigh escaped Jim's lips and he blushed, turning his head to look at his boyfriend.

Sebastian only chuckled, pressing his lips briefly to Jim's. Jim smiled against his lips, then pulled away with the smile still plastered onto his face. He turned back to the egg, working the spatula under it to flip it over. He did so, and the other side began to sizzle with the cooked side a golden brown. Sebastian rested his chin atop Jim's head, humming Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" quietly.

Jim began to hum along with him, cooking three more eggs, two of which were for himself. Coldness swarmed him as Sebastian walked away to get two plates, on which Jim put two eggs each. Sebastian retrieved two forks from the silverware drawer, handing one to the other man. Jim smiled at him and cut off a bit of the egg with the side of his fork, stabbing it and plopping it into his mouth.  Thoughts ran through his head as he chewed, and he furrowed his brow slightly. Why was Sebastian suddenly being so kind? Was something wrong? Why did he have his shoes and coat on? Was that his keys in his pocket? He shook his head slightly, as if shaking off the bad thoughts.

"Something wrong?" Sebastian asked through a mouthful of egg.

Jim smiled at him and shook his head. "I'm fine. Brilliant," he said quickly.

Sebastian nodded with a small smile, continuing to eat his egg until he was finished. He leaned back in his chair, sighing happily. Jim finished his breakfast soon after, standing and taking both plates to the sink. He washed them with a quickness, rinsing and drying them before putting them in their rightful place in the cabinets. He washed the forks as well, putting those away in a drawer. Sebastian stood up, taking his lover's hands. Jim blushed, kissing his cheek. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," Sebastian replied quietly, drawing Jim into a hug. He clung to him as if his life depended on it. "I love you more than you could ever imagine."

Jim smiled kindly, pressing his lips to his briefly. "And I you," he replied. And he meant it.

Sebastian nodded, tearing up. He would carry out his tragic plan, and nothing could stop him. The guilt had overtaken him, and he simply couldn't take it any more. He was tired of being the bad one, the one Jim was scared of, the evil Sebastian. He was tired of hurting him, as if he hadn't a care at all about his safety. He was tired, just  _tired._


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian looked at Jim with guilt piling up on him, still contemplating his own death. He wasn't having any doubts - oh, no - he was trying to decide between a gun, hanging with a belt, or a fall from a bridge. He went with the gun, just so he could say his goodbyes to Jim before he left for good.. The weapon was in his closet, and he would simply apologize, then put a bullet through his own head. Perfect.

Jim watched him with concern, taking notice of the tears threatening to spill from his lover's eyes. What was wrong with him? He had never cried for most of the entire time they were together, and now here he was, his eyes filled to the brim with tears. "Honey, did I do something wrong?" Jim said, cautiously putting a hand on Sebastian's bicep.

He quickly shook his head. "No. Aboslutely not," he replied. wiping the tears quickly from his eyes with a quiet sniff. "You did everything perfectly." Sebastian smiled reassuringly, bringing his hand up and resting it on the shorter man's shoulder. Jim took his hand from his bicep and rested it on Sebastians hand, so that his arm was crossed over his chest.

"If there's anything I can do..." he trailed off, leaving room for interpretation.

"There's no way you can do anything more than you've already done for me," Sebastian assured him, pulling him into a hug and kissing his forehead. Jim sighed happily, reaching above him and wrapping his arms around Sebastian's neck. Sebastian tilted his head down, pressing his forehead to Jim's with his hands resting on the small of his back. He chuckled a little, and Jim looked at him.

"What are  _you_  laughing at?" he said, the corner of his mouth curling up in a smile.

"Nothing, it's just that I said there wasn't anything you could do for me..." Sebastian let go of Jim, walking over to the fridge and opening it. "But we're out of milk. And food in general," he laughed, as the fridge was quite literally empty, other than a stick of butter in the door and the very few eggs left in the carton.

"Would you like me to go to the store?" Jim offered, laughing as well.

"Please," Sebastian replied, closing the fridge. "I'll write a list." He went to get a piece of paper and a pen, clicking it absent-mindedly as he returned to the kitchen. He leaned over the table, bracing himself with his elbow and biting the tip of the pen. He began to write, and the list ended up like this:

Milk

Eggs

Bread

Tea

Anything else you want :)

It felt weird to Sebastian to be writing a smiley face, but he did it anyways, wanting Jim to be as happy as humanly possible before he said his final goodbyes. Jim took the list, reading it over quickly. "Is that...?" he began, pointing at the small face next to the last entry.

"Maybe," Sebastian replied, smiling, with a blush creeping up on his cheeks. Jim only chuckled, pecking him on the cheek before scurrying to the bedroom to put on his shoes. Once they were all tied and ready, he put on his coat and walked into the living room, where Sebastian was twiddling his thumbs on the couch, the telly off. The lack of noise made Jim rather uncomfortable, as he was very much used to Sebastian being loud and always having the telly on. Suspicion filled Jim, along with much worry.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Jim asked with a frown, picking the keys up off of the desk-like thing that the telly was on.

Sebastian looked up from his thumbs, smiling weakly at Jim. "I'm fine," he lied. He certainly was not fine. Once Jim was safely out of the door, he would go into the bedroom and find his gun, then use it. He wouldn't have to live through this anymore, with all of the guilt piling up on him, breaking him down into tiny pieces.

Jim smiled kindly at him, jingling the keys as he said "Good. Well then, I'm off." He walked closer to Sebastian, who stood, looking down into Jim's eyes. Jim flinched back, and Sebastian sighed.

"Jim, I promise I won't hurt you anymore. Never again," he said, and he meant it. Besides, it would be rather hard to hurt him if he was dead.

Tears now glistened in Jim's eyes as well and he did nothing to wipe them away. He stepped closer and brought his hands up to the taller man's face, bringing it down to his. Sebastian willingly bent down, wrapping his arms around Jim's waist as their lips pressed together. Once they pulled apart after that one heavenly moment, Jim looked into his lover's eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.

Sebastian smiled down at him, pulling him closer and placing a kiss on his forehead. Jim rested his hands on his lover's chest, sighing with comfort.

Finally, to both men's great disliking, Jim pulled away. He brought a gentle hand up to caress Sebastian's face, pressing their lips together one last time before he left to the market. When he pulled back, he looked into Sebastian's eyes, relishing how the sunlight made them look like tiny stars. But, you know, that's just the thing. All stars are born, and then they die. That's just how things work. Lives are like little tiny flames - You can mess with them, blow on them to make them dance about, but if you blow to hard, poof. It gets extinguished. Little did Jim know, Sebastian's little fire would be doused much sooner than anticipated.

So, with his heart pounding in his chest at Sebastian's kind touch, he left the flat, leaving Sebastian to his thoughts - and plans.

***

Jim walked with a happy gait into the store, grabbing a cart before he continued his search for groceries. The handle of the cart was cool to the touch, and it smelled like vegetables and whatever grocery stores usually smell like. He could hear the quiet and steady hum of conversation, which was as scarce as usual. People rarely talked in the grocery store, unless they happened to be with someone else or there was a chatty cashier at one of the registers. He began to push the cart towards the isles, still a bit overwhelmed by Sebastian's newfound kindness. Though it was odd, it pleased him. Still, why was he acting so nice all of a sudden? Jim was so used to the harsh words and vicious blows that he was blown away when Sebastian even said "I love you". To others, it would be sad, their relationship. And it was. Jim never really put thought to it, but now that good Sebastian was back, he realized how bad it was before, and he hoped with all of his might that it wouldn't go back to the abuse.

Soft music played over the speakers, and Jim had to strain to hear it. He couldn't really hear it at all, so he wouldn't know if he recognized the song or not. He felt as if he had heard the beat before, but he still had no clue. So he continued his shopping, walking down the cereal isle. He figured he couldn't just either skip breakfast or have eggs every day, so he would get a few breakfast items while he was out. Lucky Charms were thrown into the cart, along with two boxes of chocolate chip granola bars. Go big or go home.

***

Meanwhile, Sebastian was still in the flat, sitting on the edge of the bed. He had found the gun, and it lay next to him on the duvet that he had found so comfortable these past years. But, it was probably only so comforting and warm because of Jim.  _Jim._  God, this would probably break him. But it had to be done. Sebastian had already broken him enough, why not finish the job? Tears clouded Sebastian's eyes again, and he rubbed at them with his palms. He wasn't thinking about the afterlife or how much peace would come after this. No, he was thinking about Jim. That's all he ever thought about now. He was like a fucking drug, one that Sebastian had abused, rather literally. But, all drugs had their downfalls after use, and this was it. This was Sebastian's downfall.

Jim at least deserved a letter. Or was that too much? Too little? Jim deserved a lot of things, things Sebastian couldn't provide, not after what he had done. He couldn't stand it anymore, hurting him. And he didn't trust himself to just quit, he was, again, addicted. So this was his only remaining option.

The gun was just sitting there, mocking him. It was as if it was saying, "Look at you, you bastard. You deserve this. Stop hesitating. He doesn't need a letter, he needs you  _gone_. You're just stalling." And it was true. Sebastian  _was_ stalling. He wished he had given Jim a more proper farewell, but their little embrace would have to do. With that, Sebastian took one hand from his face, reaching for the gun. It felt like the handle of the shopping cart with Jim - cool, but with more of a sinister touch. This  _was_ the weapon with which Sebastian would end his own life, after all. He tested its weight in his hand, bouncing it a bit. It felt normal, as if it belonged there. Maybe it did. Maybe Sebastian was just being stupid and he should just stop and try to make things work with Jim. No. He couldn't. It was just too much - too much guilt, too much pain, too much everything. Might as well just end it here.

Sebastian sat up a bit straighter on the bed, his hands beginning to shake. There was this feeling in his stomach, something he couldn't shake off. What was it? Impatience? Curiosity? Fear? Fear. That was it. For once, Sebastian was scared, scared for both himself and the one he had come to love. Who knew what was on the other side of this gun? Who knew if there even  _was_ another side? What would become of Jim? Would he suffer the same fate Sebastian would?

"Shut up." Sebastian couldn't tell if he had thought the words or said them aloud, but he knew he should take his own advice. He was done with this... Insanity. He couldn't take it. But, he needed one last look at the man he had come to love, but had severed that bond with bad choices and hurt feelings. He stood up and retrieved his wallet, sitting back on the bed before opening it. Inside were pictures of Jim, some of them both Sebastian and Jim together, others just Jim. He was gorgeous in all of them; each and every shot made him look like he was almost glowing. It was as if all of his love and happiness was radiating off of him, going to Sebastian when he needed it most. Even when he didn't need it, it was still there, warming his heart. But soon, Sebastian's heart would go cold, just like the metal of the small pistol next to him.

Sebastian flipped through the pictures, finally finding the one which was decidedly his favorite. There they were, at the top of the Ferris wheel, both of them looking as if they had just seen a ghost. That was when Jim had forced Sebastian into what was known as a 'selfie', and when Sebastian had finally given in and posed for the picture, the wheel had begun to move again, startling both men. It was somehow hilarious to them, though to others it would probably only be a little embarrassing. When Jim had gotten the picture printed, Sebastian had loved it, making sure to find a place for it in his wallet. It had stayed there, and now here it was, now slightly wet.

Wait, wet? Why? Sebastian looked puzzled for a moment, then realized the issue. He was crying. His tears were falling down onto the picture, hitting the smooth surface with tiny little patters. Of course. He finally finally finds something happy, and here he goes crying about it. Jesus, what was wrong with him? He had very rarely cried, and suddenly his eyes just spring a leak. It was Jim. It was always Jim. Night and day, all of it. Jim. But, Sebastian was tired of it. He couldn't bear to think of Jim, not after what he had done. Not after how he had hurt him, both physically and emotionally. Maybe his death would hurt him more. He would get over it.

Sebastian continued to stare at the photo of them on the Ferris wheel, smiling a bit as he reached blindly for the gun. He could barely see anymore due to the tears flooding his eyes, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. It was all about to end. The last thing he saw was an already blurry image of him and Jim made even more blurry by Sebastian's tears. Then, as the metal pressed to his temple and let out one final sob, he saw nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

While Sebastian was still at home with all of his own worries, Jim's greatest worry was which kind of Pop-tart to buy. "Sundae or strawberry?" he asked himself under his breath, holding up the two boxes. He had no idea what was going on at home, nor did he know the one and only Sebastian Moran was dead from a bullet through the head. A bullet he had purposefully put there. Jim never thought Sebastian would be suicidal. If anything, he thought he would turn out to be the suicidal one. He was put through pain and suffering day after day, but he could put up with it, as long as he could still stay with Sebastian. It was like their souls were molded together, to form one. Of course, half of that soul was gone now, put to rest by the evil machine that is a gun, in the hands of a man overcome with guilt.

Most people could deal with guilt. Whenever Jim had felt guilty about something, a bit of crying and ice cream always helped. But Sebastian's guilt... It was too much. It overloaded his brain, his heart, his soul. All of him, corrupted by what he'd done. But it was over. Jim was safe now - safe from the love of his life.

However, one thing he was not safe from was indecision. At the moment, that was the problem which he currently faced - the great battle between two different flavors of breakfast items. He put one of them up a bit, then the other, reading the labels to himself over and over. Finally, he decided on the sundae ones, figuring Sebastian would like them more. They clanged as he tossed them in the cart, and he smiled. He was nearing the end of his shopping trip, and in the buggy was: a dozen eggs, a gallon of whole milk, Lucky Charms, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, coffee, a loaf of bread, black tea bags, two boxes of chocolate chip granola bars, and now there was a box of Pop-tarts. All he needed now was a carton of his and Sebastian's favorite ice cream, which was "Triple Fudge Brownie".

Maybe some popcorn as well. Maybe when he got home they could make some popcorn and watch a movie, and Jim could fall asleep in Sebastian's lap, as he always did. He could hold him, remember the old Sebastian, make him happy. Make sure he had everything he needed, he wasn't mad at anything, and everything was flowing smoothly in his world. Maybe he should buy him something special while he was there. Popcorn and a gift didn't sound bad, not at all. So, Jim strolled to the isle that held the popcorn, picking up the kind he knew Sebastian loved. They were the sweet and salty kind, which Sebastian had freaked out about when Jim first brought them home. Jim smiled, setting the box in the cart and moving towards the freezers where they kept the ice cream. He pulled the cart to a stop, opening the door and shivering as he was hit with a blast of cold air. Glancing about for a few seconds, he finally found the flavor he was looking for, and he set that in the cart as well. Now it was time to find a gift.

What to get though? Sebastian had never said he wanted anything, other than your ordinary things. He didn't seem like one for flowers, so maybe a card? No, a bit cheesy. A stuffed animal? Girly. Jim sighed, pausing and moving out of the way of grocery store traffic as he thought about what to get. A book. That was it. Sebastian loved to read, and did so on a daily basis, at least when he wasn't trying to clean up after a murder. He read everything - Romance, sci-fi, horror. The whole she-bang. So, Jim made a U-turn, now heading at a brisk pace towards the small book rack that was near the office supplies. There was a large variety of books, most of which were from authors who just started their career or authors that weren't as famous as they wished they were. Jim turned the rack for a bit, finally catching sight of something that looked to his lover's liking. There was a James Patterson novel, one Sebastian had always said he wanted to read but never had the chance. It surprised Jim that there was an actually famous book there, but he jumped at the chance to buy his boyfriend something he had wanted for a while. It didn't even have to be a special occasion, in Jim's mind, as long as Sebastian was happy.

Jim grinned at his findings, picking up the book. It was called "Along Came A Spider". He recalled having heard of it before, most of the information coming from Sebastian's mindless ramblings about the randomest of things. Jim chuckled, remembering when he had simply asked what Sebastian's favorite genre was, and Sebastian had gone on and on for the next half hour about things that were just barely on topic. But, of course, Jim was very willing to sit and listen. Sebastian had even tried to stop, and Jim had kept telling him to go on. There was just something about seeing him like that, so happy and excited, it gave him the butterflies just to think about it. Seeing Sebastian happy was one of Jim's favorite things in life, which was why he was going to buy the book, popcorn, and the ice cream. And all of it, really. Anything - anything at all - to keep him pleased.

He proceeded to the check-out area, which wasn't very far from where he was standing. There was single cashier that wasn't either closed or occupied by another customer, and Jim hurried over to that one, smiling politely at the cashier. It was a teenage girl, who wore just enough makeup to look pretty but no so much it looked like she took a bucket of paint and tossed it on her face. Jim quickly began unloading the items he was going to buy, and the cashier rang them up with an equally speedy pace. The whole ordeal was over quickly, and Jim pulled some cash out of his wallet, paid, and collected his bags. He pushed the buggy back to the area where all of them were held, deciding to just carry the bags. There were only six of them - three for each arm. It wasn't a problem for him, and he easily made it to his car, setting the bags on one arm on the ground so that he could dig his keys out of his pocket. His car was a sleek black, one that he had had for a while now. No matter how long he had it, it was still running smoothly.

Jim put all of the bags in the trunk, banging it shut and sliding into the driver's seat. He couldn't wait to see the look on Sebastian's face as he brought the popcorn and the book, and he grinned at his own imagination as he pulled out of the parking lot and began his journey home.

***

Jim arrived home quickly, the gravel crunching under the car tires as he pulled up. Everything seemed fine, at least until he had retrieved the bags and walked in the door, shutting and locking it behind him. He had expected Sebastian to be right there in the living room, watching the telly or waiting for him. Probably to yell at him for being gone so long. Oh God, what if he really had messed up, and now he left? What if he was just waiting to ambush him with abuse? Jim shuddered, setting his keys on the back of the couch and looking around the room. Sebastian was nowhere to be seen.

"Sweetheart, I'm home. I got you something," Jim called, looking cautiously around him. There seemed to be a chill in the air, or maybe it was just his imagination. Things were eerily quiet without either yelling or the TV on, and it really freaked him out. "Sebastiaaan," Jim said, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice. Where was he? "This isn't funny, Sebastian."

Jim continued to walk around, the bags creating red marks on his forearms. He walked down the hall, checked the bathroom, even the closet. Finally, as he approached the end of the hall, he saw the bedroom door open a crack. He walked in, looking down at his arms as he adjusted the bags so they would cause him less pain. "There you are, Sebastian. I got y-" The bags fell to the floor with a bang, Jim's jaw dropping. This had to be a nightmare. It had to! Sebastian was not... He couldn't be. He wasn't. He didn't. But no, it was real.

"Sebastian," Jim choked out, leaving the bags on the floor and rushing over to the bed, falling to his knees right next to Sebastian's lifeless body. Blood stained the bedsheets, along with Sebastian's clothes. But this wasn't real. It was impossible. He would never... But he would. That was why he was acting strangely. That was why he was suddenly so nice and apologetic. All the pieces fell in place now. He wanted to say goodbye.

Shaky hands clutched Sebastian's shirt, tears already falling to the ground. "Sebastian, sweetheart. Baby. Honey. Sugar. You aren't dead. I know it. This is a nightmare, and soon I'll wake up and I'll be in your arms and everything'll be okay again right? Please tell me you're alive." Jim's throat closed, and he squeezed his eyes shut. But all he could see was Sebastian, laying there, with the blood-crusted gun laying next to him. It was over. Jim's life was over. He felt like he could die, right here, right now. He felt as if he could just crawl into bed next to Sebastian and just lay there forever, forgetting about the outside world. His heart was shattering. It literally felt as if his heart was breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, and those little shards were stabbing at his insides. He hurt. All of him - his head, his chest, his stomach, even his fingertips were racked with pain.

He bent his head down, pressing his forehead to Sebastian's waist. "S-S-Sebastian," he sobbed, lost in his own despair. The amount of pain Sebastian had put him through before was tiny compared to this. This was worse than anything you could imagine. This was like setting his insides on fire and dousing it with acid. This was what pain really was.

He reached a hand up to Sebastian's neck, feeling that little tiny bit of hope for him rise up. He pressed his two forefingers to the skin, waiting for a pulse. Just the tiniest beat, just a flicker of life. He recieved nothing. Sebastian was dead. Dead as can be. There was no life in him, nor was there any hope left in Jim. He sobbed louder now, caressing Sebastian's head with his hand. He didn't care about the blood - he had seen it before. He just wanted to hold him, to be with him. He wanted this all to be some terrible nightmare, which he would wake up from and feel the warm embrace of his lover. That warm embrace was never to be felt again.

Then, in his moment of grief, Jim heard sirens. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. He was one of the most accomplished criminals of the ages, and now he had the cops getting closer. They were about six or seven minutes away, judging by the sound of them. "No," Jim whispered. He wanted to stay here, to hold Sebastian for just a bit longer. Well, he would prefer forever, but sometimes you don't always get what you want. "Sebastian, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he choked out, still engulfed by a pain that wasn't going down, but increasing by the second. Now he would never get the chance to give him a formal goodbye, not even a formal funeral. But he had to run. He had to go now, even if he had no idea where he would go. He would just run, get as far away from here as possible. He stood up, only to fall back to his knees. His entire body was shaking terribly, and he couldn't manage to form a thought that didn't revolve around running away or Sebastian. He attempted to stand again, bracing himself on the bed. The sirens were getting closer - he had to go, now. Jim leaned over Sebastian's body, pressing his lips to his forehead. He could barely breath, and he had to suck in deep breaths every five seconds. He stayed, with his lips pressed to Sebastian's still-warm skin, for a few moments, drinking in every last precious second he still had with him.

Finally, with one last weary stare and a quiet "I'm sorry", Jim turned away, dashing into the living room. He had his hand on the doorknob when he thought for a moment, turning away. The pictures. He dashed back to the bedroom, trying his best to ignore the scene on the bed as he plucked Sebastian's wallet from next to him. Then he dashed into the kitchen, grabbing his own wallet, and then he was finally out the door.

He ran blindly downt the pavement, his eyes to filled with tears to see. He could no longer hear the sirens, only his breathing and the blood pumping in his ears. He wished he had just a few more minutes with him, just a little bit more time to mourn. But this was the life of a criminal, the life which he chose to live long ago. Now he had to stick with his choice and continue to run, until he was far enough away from the house, from his nightmare which sprang to life.

***

It felt as if he had been running for days when Jim finally ran out of breath and the grief got to him, his legs giving out from under him. He put his right hand on the pavement, his other hand clutching his chest. He attempted to breathe, but no oxygen seemed to want to come into his lungs. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All he could think about was what he'd just run from: his boyfriend, the man he loved with all of his heart, dead from suicide on the bed. Their bed.

He began to sob again, putting his face in his hands and simply weeping on the sidewalk. He didn't know where he was, all he knew was that he had been running forever. He was too far gone to care. The door to his left creaked as it opened, and an old woman was standing there in the doorway. She looked over Jim for a few moments, then turned to whoever might be inside the flat. "Sherlock, you've got a... Visitor. I think." Mrs. Hudson called to the one and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

***

"Mrs. Hudson, how can you think there's a visitor? There either is or there isn't," Sherlock replied from his music stand, looking up from the piece he was currently composing. The violin was cold against his chin, the bow laid across the back of his shoulders. Things were normal back at 221B Baker Street - No suicides. No cases. It was aggravating. Boring.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Fine then. There's a visitor. And he's... Crying," she said, looking down at the sobbing mess below her.

Sherlock groaned. "Ugh. I don't do emotions. Could you do whatever it is you do? Comfort and such?" he called back to her, feeling annoyed. He always felt uncomfortable when people cried and he was expected to make them feel better. Usually he just bluntly told them the truth and then ordered them out of his flat.

The old landlady looked at the man a bit more, finally catching sight of the red on his hands. "Sherlock... I think this one's more for you," she said, sounding worried.

"Why?" Sherlock replied, voice monotone.

"He's got blood on his hands."

Oh. How interesting. How exciting. Sherlock grabbed his gun from the coffee table, setting the violin down. He dashed to the doorway, and Mrs. Hudson quickly stepped aside and yelped when she saw the gun, rushing to her own flat and closing the door behind her.

"Alright, who are you? Show me your face," Sherlock demanded of the man below him, keeping the gun trained on his head about a foot away.

Jim looked up a little, but as soon as he saw the gun he cringed away, putting his hands out protectively. "P-please. Don't shoot," he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

That voice. He would know that voice anywhere. It was the voice that haunted his nightmares, the one that had threatened to burn the heart out of him. It was Moriarty. Jim Moriarty - the worst criminal in the world - was on his doorstep, crying his eyes out. "Moriarty," he growled, inching the gun closer.

"Sherlock, I swear, I'm not here to mess with you. I didn't even know where I was. Please, just... Don't shoot me. Please." In all honesty, death didn't sound so bad at the moment. His soul was torn in two, why not just kill him and get it over with?

"Get up," Sherlock said, poking him in the shoulder with his gun. Jim hurried to oblige, still holding his hands up in surrender. He opened his eyes, but looked at the ground, staring at it as if an alien was there under him. "Come inside," the detective said. He usually wouldn't have done this, but there was something about the man's demeanor that told him this really wasn't just a trick and that he was seriously hurt. Not really physically, but emotionally he was torn apart.

Jim looked incredulously at Sherlock, then walked slowly into the flat. He stood in the hallway, having no idea what to do with himself from that point on. Sherlock pointed towards the living room, and Jim scuttled there, sitting gingerly in what was widely known as Sherlock's chair. Sherlock glared at him, but seeing the troubled and sad look on the man's face, he decided to put it off and sit (rather uncomfortably) in John's chair. He shifted awkwardly, setting the gun on his lap. With a man like Moriarty, you had to have protection. Even if he looked like somebody died. Speaking of which, what had happened to him. What on earth could make a ruthless villain cry?

"Why are you-" Sherlock began, waving towards the man's puffy eyes instead of finishing.

Jim could barely hear him. The only thing audible to him at the moment was the blood rushing in his ears, mingled with his own voice inside his head telling him that this was all his fault. He had killed Sebastian, even if he wasn't there. He was a guilty man, and he should be put on death row. His life was over. Sebastian was gone, so what was there to live for? Sherlock had caught him now, and would probably turn him in. Or would he? Maybe he would. Maybe Jim would get executed for his crimes. That definitely sounded better than the pain he was experiencing right now. His heart felt like it was literally shattered into pieces, as if someone had taken a vase and dropped it from high in the air. His heart was that vase.

Once he finally realized Sherlock had spoken and comprehended what he had said, he closed his eyes, still trying to force his breathing down to a normal level. "It's S-Sebastian," was all he managed to force out, before breaking down into violent tears yet again. "Oh, Sebby," he sobbed, leaning over and putting his head in his hands. He had always loved that nickname. It was much easier to say than "Sebastian", especially when oxygen was coming in very small amounts to him.

"Moran?" Sherlock questioned, squinting at him. He was deducing him. He had been abused, three, maybe four years. Wasn't married, but wished he was. Obviously felt a lot of love for this man. And, given by the amount of crying, it wasn't your usual breakup. Abusers often felt guilt crash suddenly down on them, often commiting suicide. Had that been what Sebastian did? Did Jim's accomplice kill himself?

Jim nodded, his throat so tight he couldn't speak. So, it was Sebastian Moran. The Sebastian Moran. The great accomplice, and now the abusive lover. Well, that was unexpected. Sherlock nodded, placing his hands in their usual thinking position. He was thinking of how to phrase his question. He really, really wanted to just ask "Suicide?" but that may be a bit to blunt. Holmes was used to being overly blunt, but Moriarty just... Mixed him up. It was like he couldn't tell which way was up and which was was down. Hell, he couldn't even tell you what John's new laptop password was. ("ilovemary", by the way. Yeah, John was a bit obsessive.)

Finally, Sherlock's brain kicked into gear and he figured out how to ask about Sebastian's fate. "So. Sebastian. Sebby." He drawled out the last word. Maybe he hadn't thought of it after all. "What... Happened?" he managed to ask.

Jim shook his head now, still sobbing violently. "He - he..." He couldn't bring himself to carry on, and he sat back in his chair, wiping at his face. 'Get yourself together, Jim!' One of his voices shouted at him. 'His lover just died. Give him a break!' the other shouted. Jim decided to take the advice of the first voice, closing his eyes and reopening them in an attempt to rid them of the tears that remained. Everything was blury now, though he figured he couldn't do anything to change that. A flood had been let loose in his eyes, and he couldn't control it. The whole room seemed to be spinning, and Jim felt suddenly exhausted.

"What happened to Sebastian?" Sherlock repeated, leaning forwards. Just hearing Sebsatian's name hurt.

"He... He commited suicide," Jim said, looking down at Sherlock's feet. It broke his heart just to think the words, much less say them out loud. His throat closed again, and he broke down for what he was sure wouldn't be the last time.

Mrs. Hudson had gathered the courage to exit her own flat and check on Sherlock, and she now cautiously appeared in the doorway. The stranger was sobbing again, crumpled in Sherlock's chair. Of course, Sherlock was just sitting there, watching the man. He was obviously hurt, so why didn't he just go over there and comfort him? She certainly wasn't, especially sicne there was blood stained on his fingers.

She walked over behind the consulting detective, gently squeezing his shoulder as she leaned over him. "Help him, Sherlock," she whispered.

He whipped around, his face unbelieving. "What? Me? Why? How?" he stammered in a whisper.

Mrs. Hudson frowned, pushing him up and out of the chair. "Go," she demanded, pointing towards the weeping man across from them.

Shooting a glare at the old landlady, Sherlock walked over to Jim, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. Ah, what the hell? Why not show your soft side? 'To a criminal,' he reminded himself. "Jim," he said as soothingly as he could muster, resting a hand on Jim's shoulder and squatting down beside him. This made him feel so awkward, but so... Right. At the same time.

Jim immediately flinched back from his hand, thinking a blow was about to come to his face. Sherlock sighed, standing up and sitting on the arm of his chair. Oh, what he would give to be in his own chair right now. "Jim, it's okay. I won't hurt you," he said, becoming more and more comfortable with this by the second.

Jim looked up and though his vision was still blurred, he could make out the figure of Sherlock looming above him. He needed someone to hold him right now, even if it was the man who was supposedly his arch-nemesis. "Sherlock," he said, raising his arms and wrapping them around the taller man's waist like a small child. He continued to weep, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's knee. "Oh, God, Sherlock, it's all my fault," he whisperes, the fabric of Sherlock's expensive trousers digging mercilessly into his skin.

Sherlock thought for a moment. Maybe it was Jim's fault. Given his reaction to Sebastian's death, he figured it wasn't, but you never knew with Jim Moriarty. This could be another one of Jim's crazy acts, so Sherlock remained cautious and alert. He hesitatingly brought his fingers down to Jim's hair, combing it and patting it down. He wasn't sure of the action, how Jim would react to it, but he could tell it was at least a tiny bit comforting, as Jim's breath slowly returned to his lungs. "Breathe," Sherlock said comfortingly, still running his long, pale fingers through Jim's hair.

Jim nodded, reaching a hand behind his head and pressing his palm to the back of Sherlock's hand. His fingers seemed to fit perfectly between the gaps in the other man's, but not as perfectly as they went with Sebastian. With Sebastian, their hands were like puzzle pieces. They seemed to be magnetically attracted to each other, always lacing together or just touching in general. Neither one of them could stand to keep their hands off of each other - Jim in a more kind way. They could be sitting across from each other in a diner, and Jim would reach out his foot just to brush their ankles together, just to say I'm here. He would hold Sebastian's hand in his sleep, or wrap his arms around his waist, or rest his hand on his chest, or anything - anything - to make contact with him. When Sebastian was mad, he would make him some tea or something and when he handed it to him, he would brush his hand ever so lightly with his own, praying to a God he didn't even believe in that Sebastian wouldn't notice.

But now, what he himself didn't notice was how tired he really was. It was only about noon, but he felt like he could collapse right there and never wake up. "Sherlock?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Can I borrow your c-couch?" he asked tentatively, hiccuping at the last word.

The side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up a bit. "Of course." What was he doing? He just offered his couch to the meanest criminal in the world, and felt nothing of it, as if it was just a friendly gesture. And he wasn't the 'friendly' type.

Jim looked at him, his eyes full of gratitude. He had nowhere else to go - the cops were probably swarming his own flat due to the gunshot, and he just didn't want to leave. He wanted to curl up in a ball and sob for days and refuse to talk to anyone and just die. Without Sebastian, there was no reason to live. There was no warm body in the bed to cling to, no one to go out to dinner with, no one to buy gifts for. No one to hold him, to say that everything was alright. He was alone now, and there was nothing he could do about it. Even if there was, he wouldn't want it. He wanted nothing to do with the world, he just wanted the man who was lying dead, whose blood was stained on Jim's hands.

"Thank you," Jim said quietly, glancing at the large couch. It looked good enough to sleep on - welcoming, actually.

"You know, you could always sleep in the guest bedroom," Sherlock offered, suddenly remembering John's old room. It hadn't been occupied for a while now, at least since John had gotten married. Probably a bit dusty, but also much more comfortable than a couch.

Jim thought for a moment. The couch was much, much closer, and he didn't really want to walk all the way to someone else's bed. "I'll just take the couch," he said. Then he jumped, his eyes widening. "Unless, you want me to sleep in there, I mean, I'm okay with whatever, as long as you're -"

He was cut off by Sherlock's finger pressing to his lips, the contact making his cheeks heat up and turn a dark shade of red. "Shush. Whatever you want," Sherlock said, chuckling at Jim's ambivalence.

"You sure?" Jim questioned, pulling back from Sherlock's cold finger, confused a little.

"Absolutely," he replied. He glanced over at the black clock hanging on the wall, then returned his gaze back to the man below him. "I just want you to know that it's precisely twelve thirty-two," he told Jim, wondering how on Earth he could be going to sleep this early.

Jim sighed a little, though he didn't mean to. Averting his eyes, he looked down at his hands, which were still tinged red. "I know. I'm just... Tired," he said, shaking his head slightly.

Sherlock sighed a bit, too, pity changing his expression to a much softer and less confused-looking one. "Okay," was all he said, petting the back of Jim's head.

Jim blushed again, nodding and standing up. He felt a mixture of relief and desire when he felt Sherlock's hand leave his head, already missing the warmth of simple human contact. He walked carefully over to the couch, being extra cautious not to break anything or mess anything up, for fear that Sherlock would yell at him and/or beat him, as Sebastian would have. He climbed onto the couch with his knees under him, slowly adjusting himself so that he was on his side, facing outwards.

Everything was silent from that point on, until Jim got tired of the quiet. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock snapped his head up, from where he was staring down at his hands as if they held the secret to the universe. "Mm?" he asked, eyes a bit wider than usual.

"Can you... Can you come here?" Jim said quietly, scared that Sherlock would scoff at him or say his request was stupid.

However, he did not. Sherlock knew what it was like to need someone to hold, but he rarely had anyone. He knew the feeling of being alone, and he would never wish that upon anyone else, be it his worst enemy or not. The theory of "violent silence" was almost his religion, and it was something that occured with him often.

People would always ask why he wore long-sleeved shirts or his coat in public, never ever taking either of them off, depending on which one he had on that specific day. He hated for others to see his scars, including himself. They were bad marks, but addicting bad marks. He would get bored, or depressed, and next thing he knew, he was somewhere in the flat with the door closed and locked and a razor in his hand, crying his eyes out. People never expected the all-mighty Sherlock Holmes to cry, and honestly, neither did he. But sometimes, the words of others, the accusations of "freak" or "outcast" or something in that area would get to him, and he would hate himself. His so-called "amazing" deductive skills weren't all they were made out to be. They hurt, and he had to carry that burden on his shoulders, the only way to lessen the mental pain by bringing physical pain. Sometimes he just wanted to end it all, and the world could find some other detective to solve their problems or make the boogey-man go away. But he always lived through. Somehow. He could probably lose a gallon of blood, but his stubborn ass would refuse to just die and give it all up.

But now, here, there was someone in front of him. Someone he had never expected himself to say any sort of positive word to, much less invite into his home and allow him to sleep on his couch. But there was something in his eyes, something that reminded Sherlock of himself. But it was much, much worse. He had never had someone he loved dearly die, just like that. Obviously, it hurt. It was like you died right along with them.

Sherlock was silent for a bit, lost in thought. Finally, he remembered that Jim had called him, and he shook off the sudden whirlwind of depression. "Of course," he said, getting up off of the side of his chair and walking over to the couch. "Something you need?"

"No, just... C'mere," Jim said, shaking his head as he sat up, holding himself up with one arm. Sherlock raised a brow, but he waved the hand that wasn't keeping him upright, urging him to sit down. "Sit."

"Um. Okay," the consulting detective said, sitting awkwardly on the couch, where Jim had gestured to. "Now what?"

Jim smiled a weak, shaky smile, allowing himself to lay back down. His head now rested in Sherlock's lap, the warmth spreading from his thigh to the side of Jim's face. "Okay?"

"O-Okay," Sherlock replied, at first stiff and awkward, then slowly melting into relaxation. "Okay," he repeated, bringing his hand to Jim's hair again. The criminal's hair was ridiculously soft, like a small bunny. It made you want to run your fingers through it all day, non-stop.

Jim sighed with new-found comfort, leaning into Sherlock's leg as he closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said, for what felt like the millionth time. He had never expected this kind of treatment from anyone anymore, especially not the man he had tried to kill thousands of times.

Eventually, Jim fell asleep, coaxed into slumber by the steady rhythym of Sherlock's fingers pressing ever-so-lightly on his skull.


	5. Jim's Nightmare (Short)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Hello, and sorry for not posting! I've been pretty overloaded with school, but I've been sneaking in a few notebook-writing during classes and at midnight after school. I'm really glad that people seem to have been enjoying this story, as it's my first Jimlock/Sheriarty fanfiction. Also, if you could vote and follow me, that would be a great help! Finally, feel free to comment. I love hearing what you people have to say! Thanks!
> 
> -Kobra Kid

Everything happened in slow motion. Sebastian was seated on the bed that he and Jim had shared, staring off into space, with a gun right beside him. Jim was positioned in the doorway, but Sebastian didn't seem to notice him. He couldn't call out in any way, couldn't yell at Sebastian to put all his guilt behind him and just  _stay alive._ He couldn't move at all, not even to close his eyes, so he was forced to watch as Sebastian stood, retrieved the humorous picture both of them had come to love, and sat back down, the sheets crinkling under his weight as he shifted to find a comfortable position. Not that it mattered, anyway. It would all end soon, and he wouldn't have to worry about comfort, or bills, or the police, or Jim. His soul would be free from all of the guilt, which had plagued him for the past day. He couldn't bear to hurt Jim anymore, to see him constantly scared of a punch, slap, or kick. It hurt to see him like that, so he decided to go blind. Blind to the world and all its madness. Blind to what he had done, and what he was sure to do later.

At the moment, Jim wished  _he_  was blind. That way, he wouldn't have to watch as Sebastian, his beloved Sebby, turned and lifted the gun, raising it to his own head. His head hurt from all of the mental screaming, which didn't seem to want to actually come out of his mouth. It was like the words were glued to his brain, refusing to come off without causing more pain.

Wet tears dripped from Sebastian's eyes, pattering onto the photograph below him and leaving spots on his shirt. He pressed the gun a bit more firmly to his temple, wiping at his eyes. Jim tried with all his might to move towards him, and his foot scuffled with a slight squeak on the floor. Yes! He was moving! He tried, and tried, and tried a bit harder, slowly scooting along for about a foot.

But he was too late. Sebastian's finger closed down on the trigger, and suddenly, Jim found the ability to scream. He let out a terrible shriek as the loud gunshot echoed in his ears, sending Sebastian falling down into whatever afterlife he would reach first.


	6. A Violin And A Villain

_"When the leader of the bad guys sang_

_Something soft, and soaked in pain,_

_I heard the echo from his secret hideaway._

_He must've forgot to close his door,_

_As he cranked out those dismal chords,_

_And his four walls declared him insane."_

_-Twenty One Pilots, 'The Judge'_

Have you ever sang? Not just hummed along to the song on the radio, but actually poured the majority of your heart and soul into each and every sound that came from your mouth. Not just some random song, either. Your favorite song or a song you wrote yourself, or a song that matched your feelings. A song by your favorite artist - not just one of the top ten songs.

Jim Moriarty had rarely done that, yet here he was, standing under the steady stream of water with his arms wrapped around himself and his eyes closed, his brain unable to decipher what was dripping down his face - water or tears.

Coldplay was his thing. At least, his current thing. That _thing_ he just turned to when he was feeling down. Now, he wasn't just 'down'. He was so far down, he wasn't sure if he would come back up. The first song that popped into his mind made him even sadder, but he sang it anyway, an old - and embarrassing - habit of singing in the shower getting the better of him.

_"I awake to find no peace of mind._

_I said, 'How do you live as a fugitive,_

_Down here where I cannot see so clear?'_

_I said, 'What do I know?_

_Show me the right way to go.'_

_And the spies came out of the water,_

_But you're feeling so bad 'cause you know._

_But the spies hide out in every corner,_

_But you can't touch them, no._

_'Cause they're all spies._

_They're all spies."_

He paused, taking a breath and turning around to find the shampoo, sniffing slightly before continuing. The song was all too relatable, given he was a criminal mastermind, spy, _killer._

_"I awake to see that no one is free._

_We're all fugitives._

_Look at the way we live._

_Down here, I cannot sleep from fear, no._

_I said, 'Which way do I turn?_

_I forget everything I learned.'_

_But the spies came out of the water,_

_But you're feelings so bad 'cause you know._

_But the spies hide out in every corner,_

_But you can't touch them, no._

_'Cause they're all spies._

_They're all spies._

_And if we don't hide here,_

_They're going to find us._

_If we don't hide now,_

_They're going to catch us where we sleep._

_And if we don't hide here,_

_They're going to find us._

_And the spies came out of the water,_

_And you're feeling so bad 'cause you know._

_That those spies hide out in every corner,_

_They can't touch you, no._

_'Cause they're all spies."_

Jim's voice cracked near the end, his head tilting down further as tears fell from his eyes. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to put a cork on his seemingly never-ending bottle of tears.

***

Just as he picked up his violin, Sherlock's fine-tuned ears caught sounds from the bathroom, which immediately worried him. Setting the violin down, he walked to the bathroom, walking like a cat stalking its prey. Closer... Closer... he tried to make out the noise through the sound of running water, eventually making out the notes of a familiar Coldplay song.

People would expect him to demand that Jim be quiet. No. Instead, he smiled. He _actually_ smiled. He didn't back away, either. The detective just stood there, utterly astounded that a man such as Moriarty could warm his heart with a few simple notes. He noticed everything about his voice. How it dropped, how it swooped up, how he sang the song with such emotion.

However, what he didn't notice was that his own heart began to race.

He stayed for a few seconds, listening closely, before walking back to his violin on its stand. He kept his ears trained on Jim's voice, raising the instrument to his shoulder and bringing the bow to the strings. He played along with Jim, closing his eyes and letting the music flood through him. Even when Jim ceased to sing, Sherlock continued to play, not even near the tune of the song he was playing before. He spread out - just like the notes - his hips swaying to and fro and eventually the rest of him doing the same, his slender feet leading him around the flat. His troubles sank into the dungeons of his mind palace, while he, the king, roamed around, opening doors, closing them, filing through cabinets and drawers and the likes.

Sherlock was so far into his palace, he had no clue when Jim stepped from the shower, his hair slicked down with water and the suit fitting rather well on him, despite the fact it was supposed to fit a mildly smaller Sherlock. The shorter man wasn't watching at first, beginning to speak with his head down, before he looked up and stopped mid-word. He had figured Sherlock was just playing music from his laptop, not at all expecting to leave the bathroom to this. His deep brown eyes followed Sherlock's form, a small smirk forming on his face. He leaned against the doorway, holding his dirty clothes to his chest as he watched, watching as Sherlock turned, his back facing Jim. The detective brought the bow down, his head tilted down as well after finishing the song.

Jim chuckled from behind him, taking a few steps forwards, his hands coming together in a one-man applause. "That was wonderful, Holmes. I didn't think you could actually play," he grinned, his eyes bright with his clothes held between his elbow and his ribs. "Absolutely wonderful." He propped himself up on the arm of the couch, laughing more as Sherlock jumped and turned to face him.

"Well, I.... I've played for a while. A long time, actually. Since I was seven," he said, not realizing at all that his pupils dilated. Affection.

Jim's eyes widened and he leaned forwards, grinning. "That's amazing. Maybe you could play me something," he chuckled, not at all expecting the nod he received from the detective. His eyes brightened to a new scale, shining like stars. "Really? You would?" he asked, utterly astonished.

Sherlock's cheeks went a light pink, his fingers tapping against the top of the violin. "Well, no, not necessarily. But, I would comply with not sending you out of the room due to your obnoxiously loud thinking," he said quickly, trying harder than he should need to regain his cool, collected look.

Jim laughed again and scooted down, sitting on the couch normally. He crossed one leg over his knee elegantly, smiling luminously. "I'm listening." He waited anxiously, still holding his old and tattered clothes in his lap and forcing his foot not to tap, as Sebastian had hated when he tapped his foot. At least, while he was still alive.

A small smile spread across Sherlock's lips, though not nearly as brilliant as Jim's smile. Slender arms brought the violin to his shoulder once again, his brain working for a few moments to compose a series of notes. He kept the bow at rest on the strings of the violin, pulling it off once the general base of the piece was pictured in his mind. Once everything had processed - and Jim was on the edge of his seat - he began to play, his eyes fluttering shut. They often did that when he played the violin, his mind slowly becoming a clear canvas, ready to be painted on with the absolutely insane thoughts of Sherlock Holmes.

Jim closed his eyes as well, swaying his shoulders slightly as he listened, letting the music draw his voice out from its shell. He borrowed lyrics from an old Twenty One Pilots song he had heard before, smiling around the notes.

_"Oh, Ms. Believer,_

_My pretty sleeper._

_Your twisted mind_

_Is like snow on the road._

_Your shaking shoulders_

_Prove that it's colder_

_Inside your head_

_Than the winter of dead."_

Sherlock ceased to play his own notes and letting Jim follow, instead changing the entire plan he had in his mind to fit Jim's tone, words, and voice. He opened his eyes, relieved to see that Jim wasn't watching as he played. God, there was something about him. Something utterly terrifying. A man so cruel, so _sinister_ , could make Sherlock's heart pound with a soft, sweet, caring, _hurt_ voice. Gorgeous eyes closed to block out everything else, his dark eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks, the music they made _together_ flowing through each particle of his being, activating it, making him sway like a tree branch in the wind.

There was something utterly amazing about the man Sherlock had been trying to imprison, or, better yet, slaughter.

However, the detective chose for his own good to ignore this. He continued to run the bow smoothly across the strings of the violin until Jim ran out of lyrics, the man lifting his head up with cheeks more crimson red than the Devil himself. "I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to intrude on your playing, it was just so good and I... I'm sorry," he said timidly, the fear evident in his eyes.

Setting the violin in its case with the bow, Sherlock shook his head, shoving his slender hands into his pockets. "Really, it's okay. _Magnifique,_ " he said, causing Jim to take a slight bow.

"Merci, merci. Vous êtes trop gentil," Jim shot back, challenging Sherlock's knowledge of the language of the French.

Sherlock smiled, refusing to back down from a challenge. "Non, vous avez tout simplement une voix merveilleux," he purred with ease, crossing his arms. He had been forced to deal with foreign clients and foreign clues before, which lead to him learning French, which - of course - lead to him excelling at it.

Jim had to think for a few seconds, taking a bit longer to process what the detective had said. He gave up in the argument, chuckling softly. "I'm afraid to say you've got me there, Sherlock," he sighed, standing up. "However, a worthy opponent."

Sherlock chuckled, extending his hand with a small bow. "Mon plaisir," he teased, shivering slightly at how comfortingly warm Moriarty's hand was. His amused smile faltered slightly, causing Jim to worry both for his own safety and Sherlock's well-being.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?" he questioned with a small bit of unease, his bottom lip caught between his teeth from anxiety.

Shaking his head, Sherlock drew his hand back. And, doing that, he realized that the shiver that crawled up his spine wasn't from shaking Jim's hand. He shuddered because looking into Jim's eyes, hearing his laugh, hearing him sing, watching him move and speak and breathe, there was only one true deduction he could make. Yes, Jim was a thin, fragile tree branch swaying in the wind. However, he was bigger, and that wind wasn't just a small summer breeze. That wind was a tornado, sending Jim's roots flying from the soil and threatening to rip him from the ground completely. Jim was a tree.

And, he was so close to falling. The question was: would anyone hear him?

Oh, that was a dumb question. Sherlock already knew the answer - he would hear it. If no one else heard Jim fall, Sherlock was absolutely sure he would hear it. In fact, he wouldn't simply "hear" it. The sound of Jim falling, clattering onto the ground, would pound into his ears like nails on a chalkboard. If Jim fell, it would haunt him forever. He may as well prepare himself for thinking words like _'It's your fault, Sherlock. You killed him. You did this. Look at what you've done. Freak._ '

That was certainly not the only thing Sherlock had shuddered from. Certainly not just from seeing the absolute terror and brokenness in Jim's chestnut eyes. Absolutely not. As a matter of fact, that probably wasn't even the main reason Sherlock had pulled back with such unease.

Sherlock feared that he had pulled back for one of the most impossible reasons.

Sherlock feared that he was madly in love with Jim Moriarty.  


	7. Panicking, And We Aren't At The Disco

_"When panic grips your body and your heart is a hummingbird._   
_Raven thoughts blacken your mind until you're breathing in reverse._   
_All your friends and sedatives mean well but make it worse._   
_Every reassurance just magnifies the doubt._   
_Better find yourself a place to level_ _out."_

_-Bright Eyes, 'If The Brakeman Turns My Way'_

After staring for what felt like a millennium, Sherlock was finally able to tear his eyes away from Jim, his mind seeming to kick into high gear. Something was wrong. Something was oh-so-impossibly wrong. Terrifyingly wrong. Change. Change wasn't good, not for a man like Holmes. Change was one of the few things that could scare Sherlock to the point that it did. It was one of the very few things that could absolutely petrify the seemingly fearless detective.

That, and love.

Love was the scariest of them all. Love was a demon that resided deep within his heart, the one he decided to constantly leave solitary in the light of his mind. Why light? Well, he chose to send them to the light because his shadows were much more occupied. And this time, however, that demon seemed to have spread its devilish effects out of the light, going all the way into the secluded shadows that the rest of his thoughts, both good and bad, resided in.

Something about this fear made Sherlock pull his walls back up, at least, try to. His walls may be up, but they were riddled with holes and cracks that Jim instilled. "You've endured an excessive amount of stress, as well as sleep. You must be famished," he said calmly, trying to regather his prim and pristine appearance of everyday life.

Jim actually hadn't thought about food at all, his mind too busy trying to do two things:

1) Get over the fact that Sebastian had killed himself.

2) Figure out what in Hell was going on in Sherlock Holmes' mind.

From how the detective's face looked, Jim could swear that he was about to kick him out, hit him, or toss him in the basement to await the authorities. It wasn't like Sherlock was usually unlikely to do such a thing, but now, he was different. Instead of hitting him or kicking him out, Sherlock seemed more likely to tuck him into bed and buy him roses and take him out on dates and-

Stop.

James Moriarty, stop that. Stop thinking like that. Stop. Stop, stop, _stop_. He isn't like that. And if you asked if he was, he would kick you out and leave you for the dogs, otherwise known as the police. He would never tuck you into bed, he would never buy you roses, he would never take you on dates or actually love you. All this time, you've been ignoring it. You're supposed to be incapable of love, that's how it was, that's how it should be. You shouldn't be acting so kind to the detective, you shouldn't be so calm when you could kill him right now. There he was, within arms reach, your arch nemesis. And you chose to sit and cry.

Something was wrong with the both of them. The thing was, neither of them would let it show.

Jim took a few seconds to pull himself out of his own abyss of thoughts, looking from the carpet - where his sight had apparently drifted - to Sherlock's face. "What was that?"

Sherlock sighed, forcing himself to roll his eyes, though he didn't want to. ' _Keep up the image, Sherlock. Don't play nice.'_ "I said: You must be famished. You should eat," he repeated with an aggravated tone, gritting his teeth at himself when he saw Jim tense.

"Um, no, actually, I... I'm not really... No, thank you," he said, curling up on himself as he had done frequently, when he was still around Mr. Moran, clutching his dirty clothes to his chest like a teddy bear.

Sherlock shook his head once more, pulling his laptop from the coffee table. "Well, too bad. I'm ordering pizza. What would you like?" he asked, his speech speeding up word by word.

Once again, Jim shook his head, watching Sherlock sit down with his laptop. "Really, Sherlock, I'm okay. You don't need to get me anything," he said quickly, the fear he once held creeping back into his coffee brown eyes. "Honestly."

Sherlock sighed, his hard face breaking once again. His muscles softened, melting into the kind expression he had adorned before. "Jim, you need to eat. Please," he said softly, glancing down for a second to open the Pizza Hut website.

Jim sighed with a quiet nod, knowing for sure that Sherlock would force him into eating one way or another. "I don't really mind what you get. There's not much I don't like. Just no anchovies," he said, despising the idea of fish all over his pizza.

Sherlock scrunched his nose, shaking his head. "Ew, of course not. Anchovies are terrible. Well, I don't really eat pizza. So, you'll have to pick yourself." His bright blue eyes scanned over the menu items, each one not really of any particular interest to him. "There's a special. One pizza, breadsticks, and cinnamon sticks. Cinnamon actually sounds rather good. Shall we get that?" he said in a monotone voice, making Jim chuckle despite his fear.

"That sounds great, actually. How about just normal pepperoni?"

Sherlock nodded, quickly clicking the little box and sending his order in. "Well, there's that. Why don't you go throw your clothes in the washer?" he offered, closing the lid of his laptop gingerly.

Jim raised his brows a small fraction, the teddy-bear-like appearance of his clothes strengthening when he held them closer to his chest protectively. "Are you sure?" he asked in small, child-like voice, burying his chin in the folds of his dirty suit.

Watching him fidget for a moment, Sherlock nodded, one leg crossing over the other. "I'm utterly positive. I've probably got other clothes you could fit in, but not much," he sighed, clasping his hands together on top of his knee. He looked rather like his brother, and he absolutely despised it. However, the leg-crossing habit was a rather loathsome habit that both of the Holmes brothers shared.

While Sherlock had classily crossed his legs, Jim's legs had no clue what to do, his feet switching from front to back, to front, to back, to still in the middle, to back again. They continued switching in such a manner as Jim answered, his voice still as feeble as before. "I... Alright. Could you tell me where the washer is?"

Sherlock pointed towards the hall, the left side of his lip twitching in annoyance at Jim's tapping and shuffling. "Down there, to the left, the end of the hall," he said simply. "There's detergent on the shelf, as well as anything else you might need. Just wash your shirt and other things, leave the jacket. It'll have to be dry cleaned."

Jim nodded quickly, standing and rushing in the direction that Sherlock had taken him.

***

Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning up around the washer and dryer, knowing that Sherlock rarely did so himself, not since John had gone. With John gone, Sherlock really had no reason to clean, resulting in the man's flat being an utter wreck. She had a few clean dishes she hadn't put away set delicately on top of the dryer so that she could put them away as soon as she was done with the clothes. Her mind struggled to figure out who it was at the door, but she knew it couldn't be that good. However, though she wasn't a super-genius mastermind like Sherlock, she knew that whoever it was either hadn't left or they were dead from unnatural causes (otherwise known as executed by Sherlock Holmes.)

She heard footsteps coming from the hall and, assuming they were Sherlock's, she began to speak, her elderly voice motherly and chiding. "Sherlock, dear, you really should clean up a bit more. If you keep leaving those dishes in the sink, you'll get roaches. Now, I'm not your housekeeper, but just this once I'll-" At that moment, Mrs. Hudson turned, seeing a person that was definitely not her tenant. She took a moment to process the face, news stories immediately popping into mind. Mass murders. Explosions. Sherlock jumping off of a building. The most well-known criminal throughout England.

And he was in Sherlock's bloody flat.

Now, she may be old, but she's strong for her age. With a gasp, her arm lashed out to her side, in the direction of the dryer, snatching the pan she had set next to the other clean dishes so that the pile wouldn't totter too much and fall. As soon as her fingers grabbed hold of it, she swung as hard as she possibly could, nailing the man in the temple.

Jim let out a terrified whimper, trying to jump back, but he was all too late. He felt the pan collide with his temple, and he knew - that was it. He was out. He blacked almost immediately, his knees going out from under him and his clothes being gripped in one hand as he fell, his hand gaining even more damage from the succeeding wall behind him in the small space. One hand splayed across his chest, the other - the one holding the clothes - slamming against the wall, loosening his fingers and dropping his clothes on the small amount of ground between the wall and Jim's shoulder. That hand then dropped onto that pile of clothes, a perfect image of the unconscious form that television shows portrayed.

Mrs. Hudson froze, glancing from the pan in her hand to the man on the floor. Whoever knew that a cooking instrument could be so handy in knocking a person out?

***

Sherlock immediately looked up from the book he had been reading - the same one he had been reading when Jim laid in his lap - the sound of something falling not settling with him well. He folded his page and set the book aside, watching the hall carefully as he side-stepped in that direction, the only word fitting his emotions being "surprise" when he saw his landlady brandishing a frying pan as if she were a professional baseball player. "Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaimed, ceasing to creep and beginning to run.

The old woman's eyes widened as she brought one hand from the pan, pointing towards the man in the corner. "Sherlock, he's here! Why in the name of my bloody sanity is Moriarty in your flat?" she demanded, fear and anger washing over her face all at once.

Sherlock only shook his head, kneeling next to the absolutely silent Jim and scooting his head away from the wall, his gentleness shocking both himself and Mrs. Hudson.

"Well, I should ask the same about what you're doing in my flat, but that's an argument I'll save until I believe you're in the right frame of mind to answer anything that involves 'sanity'," he snapped, pulling Jim's head into his lap. "Did you _actually_ hit him with a pan?"

Mrs. Hudson set the pan down on the dryer, watching Sherlock's tender movements with utter astonishment. "Yes, I hit him! He's a criminal! A _criminal_ , Sherlock! Don't you realize this? Don't you get it?" she said with a firm tone, actually raising her voice for once in her usually kind-hearted life.

Sherlock scowled, looking up from frantically taking Jim's pulse. "Of course I know that, Mrs. Hudson. I also recall a few times when you would have considered me the same exact thing. Everyone deserves a second chance, even a man such as Moriarty. He's been through so much more than either of us could have ever imagined, even me. Now, if you're done being a busybody and cleaning a flat that _isn't yours_ , I would appreciate you _pissing_ off and letting me tend to the man you just so ungraciously knocked senseless," he snapped, his heart pounding in his chest. He remembered the time when both he and John had yelled at Mycroft for snapping at Mrs. Hudson, which wasn't anywhere near as bad as all that he'd just said.

Mrs. Hudson gasped, more anger and shock coming across her features. "Sherlock Holmes, how dare you? He's a criminal. He could have killed you. What on earth are you doing?" she exclaimed, waving her hands about like a madman.

"I'm trying to take care of him. Please, go over what I just asked you to do, unless you're still all too far out of your mind to comprehend my speech," he growled, combing Jim's hair back from his forehead. He set Jim back on the floor gently, standing up and advancing towards his landlady. "Bug _off_ , Mrs. Hudson. You just completely immobilised the only person I've been able to keep up a conversation with. You could have just permanently damaged him. I would strongly recommend you back off, before I -" he was stopped by the feeling of a hand slipping into his, squeezing his fingers weakly.

"Sherlock," Jim's feeble voice said from the ground, his eyes squeezed shut, in obvious pain. His head was pounding and he barely had any recollection of what happened at first until his brain kicked in - which worsened his headache - putting together the scraps of memory he had to figure out what had happened. Mrs. Hudson had... Oh, God. God, no, not again, not here, not now. Jim's eyes widened and he sat up all too quickly, curling up in as tight a ball as he could in the corner, bringing his knees up to his chin, despite the fact he felt as if he would pass out again. "No, no, _please_ , no, please, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Please, don't... I just... God, _please_ ," he whimpered, ducking his head down and covering the back of his head with his hands, fearing the one hit would continue into two, three, ten more.

Sherlock let one last scowl show towards Mrs. Hudson, his face immediately softening as he kneeled down beside Jim. "Jim. Jim, calm down, it's okay. She was just frightened. It's okay," he said, not quite in a whisper, though almost soft enough to become one.

Jim began to gasp for breath, shaking his head against his pants leg and tensing against Sherlock's touch. "No, no, no, please. Please, stop," he pleaded, images of Sebastian's "discipline" running through his mind like an angry lion. "I'm sorry, I-" -another gasp for breath - "I'll try h-harder, I... I'll fix it, I... _Please_ ," he cried, his chest beginning to heave with heavy sobs.

A panic attack. One of his worse ones. Each image of Sebastian, both dead and alive, tearing through his mind at an agonizingly slow pace. They didn't just flash on and off, no, of course not. He hasn't stricken such luck. They stayed within his mind, making him remember every detail, every bruise, every scar, every shout, insult, threat, broken vase, shattered picture frame, makeshift weapon. Everything. Every single detail, piercing his mind like a knife through cardboard, the very definition of dreadful.

Sherlock, with some effort, could put together what was happening. However, what he couldn't put together, the most important part, was how to help. "Jim. Jim, we aren't going to hurt you. Neither of us," he said quietly, wrapping an arm around Jim's shoulder awkwardly, while Mrs. Hudson just watched, actually dumbstruck.

Jim let out a tiny shriek, wrenching from Sherlock's arm and returning to the corner as soon as he could, pressing as hard as he could to the wall farthest from the detective, wishing the thing would just fall down and let him run. "Please, I'm sorry. Please," he continued to plead, protecting his head once again, like the tornado drills that schools would make you suffer through as a child. "I'm so sorry, I'll make it up, I-I swear, I-" Another breath-taking sob racked his body, tears pouring from his eyes as if they had sprung a leak from his fear.

Sherlock looked to Mrs. Hudson, asking for advice, almost begging for it. The woman still looked astounded, glancing to Jim, then Sherlock, then Jim again, back to Sherlock, then her own two hands. Then, she proceeded to scurry out of the room, leaving the dishes on the dryer and practically dashing to her own flat, closing the door. Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, scooting back a bit further from Jim. "Jim, she's gone now. She won't hurt you. Neither will I. You're safe," he said softly, not daring to reach out a hand to him.

Jim broke down in more sobs, shaking his head like a lunatic. "No! No! You'd always wanted to kill me! This was all some big plan, wasn't it! You wanted to kill me!" he cried, sobbing ever-harder. Then, his voice cracked, his words spiraling down to a whisper. "Please. Please, go."

Sherlock nodded, trying to remain calm in hopes that his serenity could soothe Jim. "I'll leave. Deep breaths, Jim. It's okay," he said softly, making sure to keep his hands to himself as he stood, hating himself for the terrified flinch that drew from Jim.

***

At least half an hour later, probably more, Jim finally gathered enough courage to stand, still clasping both arms around his torso. He took one shaky step towards the living room, then another, gradually making his way cautiously, until he caught sight of Sherlock reading the same book as before in his chair. "Sherlock, I-" he began, gulping. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to freak out, it just happens, I understand if you want me out, I can leave," he blurted quickly, looking up with wide eyes.

Sherlock set his book aside once more, looking up with a small smile. "Come here," he said, standing up and beckoning for Jim.

Jim just looked at the man's pale hand, shaking his head. "No," he said quietly, clutching at his own elbows with fear.

Sherlock shook his head calmly, keeping his hand out. "I promise, I won't do anything. Trust me," he said, grinning as soon as Jim began to step apprehensively towards him, like a stray dog. Once he was close enough, Sherlock took a careful step forwards himself, ever-so-slowly wrapping his arms around the much shorter man, leaving him room to get away if he felt uncomfortable. Jim didn't object, so Sherlock continued, pulling him closer and tightening his hold slightly. "I won't hurt you," he said quietly, resting his cheek against the side of Jim's head. "Not now, not any time in the near future." He rested one hand on Jim's back, the other combing through his dark hair gently. "I promise you."

Jim buried his face into Sherlock's shoulder, surprised - and terrified - that he actually found comfort there. "Thank you," he whispered, his hands moving to Sherlock's sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Thank you so much, Sher-" He was cut off by the ringing of the doorbell, which made him spin around gracefully, pressing back into Sherlock for protection.

Sherlock turned an immense shade of red, resting his hands on Jim's shoulders. "Calm down, it's only the doorbell," he said with an awkward cough, his entire front going tense. He took a step back to preserve his sanity, Jim's rear being a bit too close to his front. Sidestepping around Jim, he went to the door, grabbing his wallet from the cluttered desk before he did so. He didn't bother checking the peephole, too preoccupied with how close in proximity he and Jim were to remember. "How much is it? Twenty?" he immediately began to question, digging in his wallet without looking up.

And, when he did, he was utterly shocked to see not the pizza deliverer, but his older brother.

"Brother dearest," Mycroft hummed, pursing his lips and leaning his weight into his umbrella as if it were a cane. He stepped in without asking, paying no attention to the figure near the corner. Probably some idiotic client of Sherlock's, no one he need bother with or acknowledge. "There was a suicide. At least, the blokes at the Yard think so. I, on the other hand, say it was homicide, to the finest degree," he said in his usual prideful tone, turning his back to the rest of the living room to face his younger brother. "Most all details _screamed_ suicide, but I think not. They found fingerprints."

Sherlock didn't let him finish, crossing his arms and ignoring Jim to the best of his ability. "Why on earth should I be interested in this? Suicides happen all the time, it's not as if it's anything new or interesting or-"

"Moriarty," Mycroft practically purred, smirking all the while.

"What?"

"I believe you heard me rather well, Sherlock. I said, Moriarty. They found his fingerprints. All over the damn place."

Jim smothered a gasp from the background, covering his mouth with both hands. They had found Sebastian. They had found his fingerprints _everywhere_. They thought he killed him. Then again, he thought he killed him, too, but in a completely different way. Fresh tears sprung to his eyes, which widened, turning to Sherlock.

Though Jim tried to smother the gasp, Mycroft's sharp ears heard it, the sound convincing the older Holmes to turn around, a scowl plastered on his face. "Oh, whoever you are, would you mind keeping qu- Well, if it isn't my lucky day," he said, his complaint turning to a look of pure viciousness within seconds. He was in front of Jim in a flash, pressing the man to the wall, ignoring the terror in his eyes as he thrusted his umbrella to his neck, holding it horizontally against Jim's throat. "Jim Moriarty. What a pleasure to see you again."

Jim gasped, terror flashing in his eyes like a rabbit and his heart going just as fast. "Mr. Holmes, I-" he was cut off once again, this time by Mycroft pressing harder onto his throat with the umbrella, causing his hands to flash up and try to pry the thing away. "Please," he choked out, his face going slightly red from a lack of oxygen.

Sherlock lashed forwards, grabbing Mycroft's shoulder with a piercing grip. "Get off of him, you arsehole!" he shouted, shoving Mycroft away with full force.

Jim keeled over with another cough, his face ever-so-slowly regaining its color as the oxygen entered his lungs once again.

Mycroft sneered, recovering from the shove with ease. "Ah, sticking up for the mass murderer, eh? Shall I report both of you to the Yard, then?" he teased, stepping towards Sherlock, but not after lashing his umbrella out again, extending it so the point pinned Jim against the wall by his chest, as if he were a beetle to be put on display.

The younger Holmes growled with animalistic anger, his hands twitching to throttle his brother. "Why can't you just stay out of my business, Mycroft? Can't you just go frolic in the meadows with your boyfriend Gavin?" he hissed, smirking slightly. The two looked like two felines about to fight, the hairs on their backs stiff and threatening, their tails swishing with madness.

Mycroft's cheeks actually grew dark, his glare intensifying. "Do _not_ bring Gregory into this. He's not my boyfriend, and you know that. Caring is a chemical defect-"

"-Found only in the losing side, yes I know, you've told me a million times," the other continued, scowling. "You don't understand, Mycroft. Did you look at any of the other evidence in that flat? The blood? Jim's blood?"

"Oh, on a first name basis now, are we?" Mycroft practically sang, smirking wide. "You might as well both just get married, given how this is going."

"Shut _up_ , Mycroft. He was abused. He changed. He's different. I want to help him," he said, making sure the last sentence came through strong and bold, as it was intended.

Jim cleared his throat timidly, raising a feeble finger. "Excuse me... Could you... Could you please stop fighting?" he said with a small voice, watching Mycroft with excessive fear.

Mycroft swung his umbrella and smacked Jim across the jaw, the blunt force sending the man to the ground with a yelp. "Shut up," he growled, watching Jim lay helpless on his side, curling up to the best of his ability, rubbing his jaw with more tears forming in his eyes.

The doorbell rang once again, this time with a nervously bouncing teenager with a work uniform on and a pizza box in hand. Jim held back tears and Sherlock stormed towards the door, motioning for Mycroft to follow before he opened it. "Out," he hissed.

Mycroft smiled sarcastically, tapping his umbrella on the ground. "Gladly, brother dearest," he said calmly, squeezing smoothly between the delivery boy and the doorway, walking briskly towards his sleek black car, where Gregory Lestrade was already waiting in the back seat.

***

After the pizza had been paid for and the delivery boy was away, Sherlock paid the food no mind, slamming the door shut with full force and tossing the pizza carelessly onto the counter. The roaches could have it, for all he cared. For now, all he cared about was Jim Moriarty, whom he rushed over to after dropping his wallet in his chair. "Jim. Jim, are you okay?" he asked with worry plaguing his tone, his heart racing as he lifted Jim's torso off of the ground, helping him sit up against the wall.

Jim groaned with a small whimper in between, rubbing his temples. "My head hurts," he muttered, leaning heavily into Sherlock's shoulder. "And my jaw. But mostly my head."

Sherlock nodded quietly and moved to Jim's other side, brushing the man's hair back to see tiny droplets of mostly-dried blood on both his temple and his cheek. "They hit you rather hard... you should go to a hospital," he said, pulling back to look into Jim's eyes.

Terror flashed within the coffee colored irises, Jim's head shaking. "No, no, we'll see h-him again, and I just... I can't," he said, continuing to shake his head.

Sherlock shook his head, lifting Jim off of the ground fully and standing himself. "No. I'll put the pizza in the fridge, and then I'm taking you to St. Barts. You might have a concussion."

"No, Sherlock, please," Jim pleaded, wrapping his arms around himself once again. "Can we just eat, please?" he asked weakly, looking up at him with obviously scared eyes. "Please."

Sighing, Sherlock nodded, grabbing some paper plates and setting a piece of pizza on each, with a breadstick on one. The larger piece went to Jim, the smaller one without the breadstick going to himself. "There," he said simply, already mentally planning to call someone he knew to come check on Jim.

They would understand, right? They wouldn't freak out, like Mycroft? They would 'get it', right? God, it felt terrifying, but Sherlock knew it was the only way to make sure Jim was okay.

He would have to call John.


End file.
